All I Need to Fall in Love
by acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: A collection of Agents of Shield prompts and head-canons from Tumblr. Primarily Skimmons. Unrelated unless otherwise noted.
1. Broken Wings and Bus Stops

_Prompt_: broken wings

* * *

Turns out, Skye had learned that morning, that angels with broken wings have to ride the county bus.

She'd argued with AC about it, but Coulson stayed firm. It wasn't a punishment for what had happened with Ward, her previous charge. No, he'd insisted, it was a lesson.

She was stuck riding the bus until she'd demonstrated that she was ready to get her wings back.

Apparently just saying she was sorry wasn't enough.

* * *

A long time ago, to steal a line from some movie Skye'd seen years before, there'd been a great divide of the cosmos. Light and dark. Good and bad. There'd been betrayals and losses.

The fight seemed like it would never end.

And then, in a moment of divine inspiration, a whole new category of beings had been created.

Humans.

Innocents.

New minds and hearts and bodies.

Unclaimed.

And in that moment, a whole new fight began.

* * *

Skye belonged to a class of angels tasked with identifying humans being courted by the other side, and then protecting them from the demons sent to seduce them.

Why this charge and not that one, what the demons wanted from these particular humans, Skye didn't know. She'd asked Coulson time and time again, but he'd always waved her questions off. "It wasn't their business to know," he'd say, or her least favorite phrase, "have faith."

Generally, Skye concluded, it was a numbers game. Maybe there there was a reason, maybe there wasn't. But it was pretty clear that no one was going to be letting her in on the big secret any time soon.

So she went about her business. Coulson gave her names. She stood guard over her charges, convinced the demons that people like Matty Price, the museum guard from Louisville, and Luz Velazquez, the elementary school teacher from Sao Paolo, weren't worth the trouble of acquiring. That, Skye had to admit, was always fun.

And then there'd been Ward. A tall, good-looking federal agent with a dark personal history.

Or so she'd thought. The dark history had been true. But that had been the only thing. Okay, and the good-looking part too. But his good looks had been nothing more than a pretty, shiny distraction meant to hide his true identity.

For the first time in an eternity, an angel had been led astray. Skye had been taken in by Ward's deceptions, for his mask of vulnerability. Instead of protecting someone from the clutches of the dark, Skye had fallen for the lies of a nephilim.

She'd survived.

But she'd come back broken.

She'd come back without her wings.

* * *

AC had kept her grounded for a while, letting her recover from her experience slowly. But this morning he'd sought her out and slipped a small piece of paper into her hand and giving her that fatherly nod he seemed to reserve for his favorites.

"Jemma Simmons," he told her, "9:23, Addams and 4th."

The slip of paper was a bus ticket.

Which is how she found herself sitting on a sticky bus shelter bench next to a teenager obviously on his way home from the gym. She was wondering if it would be rude to ask the kid if he'd ever considered using an antiperspirant. Hey, he smelled like a locker room—she was an angel, not a saint.

Turned out she didn't need to though, because the bus pulled up and people came streaming out of its doors. Skye jumped up and moved to board, handing her ticket to the driver and moving into the bus, looking for an open seat. Unfortunately, there were none. She moved to stand near the back, when a woman sitting in the back caught her eye.

"Margaret! Over here," the pretty brunette said, waving. "Excuse me, my friend just got on," she said to the man sitting next to her, and stood up to climb past him, and moved to stand next to Skye near the rear door.

"I'm so sorry," the woman whispered, "but this guy sat down next to me and asked me out and I really don't think he wants to take no for an answer. So if you wouldn't mind pretending to be my friend for the next ten minutes, I'd really appreciate it."

Skye was a little flabbergasted, but she nodded.

"Great, I'm Jemma, by the way."

"Skye," the angel said, "nice to meet you."

The bus took a sharp turn, throwing their bodies together against the side of the bus.

Jemma just laughed, caught between Skye and the wall.

It was a precious sound, like the gentle peel of bells.

Hearing it, Skye felt a familiar twitch in the feathers of her wings.

When she looked up, she could have sworn she saw Coulson at the wheel, his reflection smiling back at her in the mirror.


	2. Like Love

_Prompt_: who would get drunk off of eggnog?

* * *

Really, it wasn't her fault, Jemma thought as she let the steamy heat of the shower fall over her sore head.

And it really wasn't.

Sure, she'd made the eggnog.

And it had been perfect.

Just the right ratio of milk and cream, eggs and and sugar and nutmeg. And rum, of course, just enough to warm the tongue and throat and belly as you swallowed it down.

It was science. It was chemistry. It was perfect.

And then she'd made the mistake of letting the bowl sit unsupervised during their little holiday party.

She hadn't even noticed, not right away, how every new glass of the festive drink seemed stronger. She hadn't noticed until it was too late, until she could already feel her head buzzing and Skye was beginning to dance lazily in the corner of the room, arms held high above her head and hips swaying, circling, sashaying from one spot to the other.

It had to have been Ward who started it. Or maybe May. She'd bet her whole savings on it, that one of them first brought out the bottle of rum and splashed a little more into the bowl.

Fitz, she'd bet, had taken part as well, and Skye herself, even, though she hadn't seen either of them tipping the bottle of expensive rum into the fancy bowl.

The only two she was pretty sure hadn't had a hand in altering her perfect concoction were Tripp and Agent Coulson. Neither of them were the type to spike the holiday punch. Or the eggnog, as it were.

But between the other four, Ward and Fitz, May and Skye, they'd turned a festive holiday drink meant to warm the body during the cold winter nights into a high-octane tonic that made everyone and everything seem loose and free and easy.

Jemma doesn't know where the spiked eggnog took everyone else last night, and she doesn't want to. It's enough to know where she ended up.

Held tight within the strong embrace of Skye's toned, gently muscular arms.

She has no idea how many mugs of eggnog she drank, much less how much Skye consumed, but it doesn't matter.

Because during last night's rum-fueled festivities, Skye had fallen into her arms, and looked up at her with such a deep, adoring gaze. The trainee licked her lips and whispered Jemma's name.

And though Jemma's legs were steady and her head only slightly buzzing—she's English, she can hold her liquor—her heart, her heart was not. She felt it trip over the look in Skye's sparkling eyes, felt it stumble over the way the darker-haired woman was clutching at her arms, and finally, finally felt it fall. Felt it fall right into the sound of Skye's voice saying her name.

Nothing happened.

Not last night.

Skye was sloshed and Jemma was a little squiffy herself.

And so nothing had happened. But Jemma had led Skye off to her bunk, watched as she downed two big glasses of water and a Tylenol to head off tomorrow's inevitable hangover, and tucked the beautiful woman in before bending over to drop a little kiss on the younger woman's smooth forehead.

But as she'd turned to leave, Skye had grabbed after her hand. And asked her to stay. With her words, yes, but also in the way she gently squeezed Jemma's hand, with a smile so beautiful it was almost painful to look at. Beautiful, and shy.

Jemma did. She hesitated for only a moment, but she stayed. Slipped off her shoes and shrugged out of her sweater, leaving just her undershirt on and her pants. And then, taking up Skye's hand again, she slid under the covers and pulled the younger woman into her arms.

"Sleep," she whispered into Skye's ear, knowing that in the morning, when they were both sober and whole again, they would have to talk, would have to put into words the things that they were obviously feeling for each other.

But tomorrow.

Not now.

"Sleep," she whispered again.

And they did.


	3. The Universe Surrenders

Lyrics from "The Universe" by Gregory Alan Isakov

* * *

_the Universe, she's wounded_  
_she's got bruises on her feet_  
_I sat down like I always did,_  
_and tried to calm her down_

* * *

It doesn't matter how it happened, it happened.

Another mission, another encounter with one of Hydra's squadrons of elite assassins, and another narrowly missed appointment with death.

It was too much, too much for Skye to handle. She couldn't do her job and worry about Jemma constantly. She couldn't watch out for her own skin when she was thinking all the potential dangers that Jemma was heading into.

It was bad when they were apart from each other, Skye always wondering what the world and Hydra had waiting for her lover.

It was worse when they were together, and Skye was constantly fighting the impulse to turn around, to call out, to check on the woman she loved. Even in the heat of battle. Especially in the heat of battle.

This time it had been no one's fault, a fact which did not comfort Skye at all. No, not at all. Because there was no one to take out her anger on, no one upon whom she could release her rage and her fear. No one but herself, and the woman laying still—always too still—in the bed next to her.

Jemma was sleeping—a mild concussion, a bruised diaphram, some minor lacerations on her limbs from where she fell into the old abandoned trap well-hidden on the florest floor but thankfully nothing more.

It could have been so much worse.

But still, it was too much.

Still, Sky thought to herself as she watched the steady rise and fall of Jemma's chest, still. It was too much to ask, too much to risk.

Something had to give.

* * *

_the Universe, she's wounded_  
_but she's still got infinity ahead of her_  
_she's still got you and me_  
_and everybody says that she's beautiful_

* * *

It's a small limp. A small limp and a tiny wince whenever she steps on it that alerts Skye to the fact that the plan to infiltrate and extract a sample of a mysterious biological agent didn't go off without a hitch.

Coulson's supporting Jemma's weight, just the slightest bit, and despite the way the scientist bites at her lip whenever she takes a step, they're laughing.

Laughing.

Skye wants to run forward, wants to pull Jemma away and into her own arms. Wants to lay her down in their bed, bare, and look her over, inspect every inch of her lover's body and catalogue every new scratch, every new scar. But somehow, somehow she holds herself back.

It's later, in the lab after the debriefing, that she steps forward, that she allows herself to stand next to Jemma and drink in that scent she knows so well. Jemma's still hobbling, of course; has been too enthralled with this new substance, this miracle drug, to take care of herself.

Or maybe she was waiting. For Skye to get over the anxiety, the lack of self-confidence, and step forward. Welcome her home.

Skye comes up behind Jemma and pulls the taller woman back, into her own body, into her arms, and just holds her for a second—two, five. She could hold this woman forever.

But not now, not while Jemma is aching and trying to pretend like she's not. Not while Jemma is injured and refusing to admit it.

She pulls her love over to one of the chairs in the corner, makes her sit. And then she kneels before her, kneels and takes Jemma's ankle into her hands to examine it.

Skye runs her hands up, and then down. Feeling over every muscle, every tendon, every patch of precious skin. She notes every sound her lover makes, the hitch of breath at arousal, the hiss between her teeth at a shooting sliver of pain.

"Come then," she says as she put's the scientist's leg back down and stands, hands held out to pull Jemma up, "let's get some ice on that, Agent Simmons."

She aligns herself along side Jemma's injured leg, and pulls the other woman's arm over, across her shoulder, wraps her own around the injured woman's waist. She takes Jemma's weight upon her own, like it's nothing, like she could carry her love in her arms for miles.

The lab is silent but for the sound of feet shuffling across the floor, and the slightest of murmurings as a slightly British voice whispers "Don't be silly, I'm fine," and another one, a little lower, soothing, just "hmmmms" in response.

* * *

_the Universe, she's wounded_  
_but she's still got infinity ahead of her_  
_she's still got you and me_  
_and everybody says that she's beautiful_  
_and everybody says …_

* * *

One day there will be no more blood.

One day there will be no more pain.

No more worrying, no more suffering, no more losing the things that matter the most.

One day there will be a house and a garden. Trees in the back yard, tall ones. Ones that cover the grass in cooling shade in the heat of the long summer afternoons.

One day there will be tea at breakfast, piping hot, and lemonade on the patio in the evening. The sound of birds and bees and the little squirrel who lives in the line of fir trees that wrap around their property, that keep the world at a distance and let them live their lives, finally, in some kind of quiet.

In some kind of peace.

One day there will be a dog, and then another, toenails skidding across the bare hardwood floors. A great big bed, always just slightly mussed, and someone's shoes toed off in the hall.

One day they'll be whole again.

One day their wounds will scar over, and even though every now and again, every once in blue moon, they'll itch and scratch and open memories of tragedies best left forgotten, they'll be complete, they'll be strong, they'll be better.

One day, just an infinity of unknowns ahead, one day they'll just be.

Together.


	4. Oh, Let Your Laughter Fill the Room

**A 5-Sentence fic.**

Prompt: Skimmons and laughter.

* * *

Eventually, Skye learned how to control her powers, how to keep her emotions in check. It was a long process of trial-and-error, of almost-eurekas and narrowly-escaped tragedies, before they figured it out, how to detrigger her. In the end it was simple, it wasn't science or technology or even magic; in the end it wasn't May or Coulson, aliens or even gods who taught her to be steady, to be whole. In the end it was Jemma, the care in her touch, the scent of her hair, the gentle sound of her laugh.

In the end it was the easiest thing, it was love.


	5. Learn to Live Without

_Prompt_: "what exactly are you saying?"

* * *

"What exactly are you saying?" Jemma asked and turned away from Coulson to look out toward the nighttime lights of the city in the distance.

"They want Skye, Jemma," his voice sounded more beaten, more broken, than she'd ever heard from him before, old and weary and world worn, "and this time I don't know if there's a single thing I can do about it. They think she's dangerous and they want to keep her contained."

"But, Coulson," Jemma countered, "we know she's not dangerous; we know she'd ever hurt anyone in purpose. How can we betray her, you can't be considering this, Director."

Her soft, English voice faded away into the darkness of the unlit room–she already knew the terrible answer.

"Coulson," she tried one more time, "Phil…"

But when he lifted his head to meet her eyes, she saw the anguish written there.

"They're going to harm civilians, Jemma. Innocents. Skye wouldn't want that, not if there was something she–we–."

But there was nothing more to say.

They were Agents of Shield, sacrifice was inevitable.

Even the people they thought they couldn't live without.


End file.
